


someone's gotta' die and you don't have to love him

by broadrippleisburning



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7041031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broadrippleisburning/pseuds/broadrippleisburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts casually, slowly, almost imperceptible; an insult hurled across the centre green. Jeers and empty threats.<br/>It ends predictably, in flames and, and at his own hand, or creation, or whatever. It's still a death of his own making. It's still three boys left without their king; left with nothing but the memory of a summer of flames and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	someone's gotta' die and you don't have to love him

**Author's Note:**

> this is a mess, i am a mess  
> title from waves by portugal. the man  
> ps, i had to refrain from titling this 'a mess of a dreamer with the nerve to adore you' because as fitting as it is and as much as it pains me, tswift just does not fit the tone of this fic

It starts casually, slowly, almost imperceptible; an insult hurled across the centre green. Jeers and empty threats.

It ends predictably, in flames, and at his own hand, or creation, or whatever. It's still a death of his own making. It's still three boys left without their king; left with nothing but the memory of a summer of flames and violence.

In between there's drugs and dreams and danger. There's sharp smiles, unimaginative insults, and the screech of tires on asphalt. It's a battle of chrome and smoke, and only one can be left standing.

 

* * *

 

 

It starts with Kavinsky sprawled over the hood of the Evo, watching Ronan make his slow way across the parking lot through hooded eyes, gaze hidden behind white sunglasses. Jiang frowns and tosses away his still burning cigarette.

“Come on, I'm tired of Lynch watching,” he complains, stalking towards the school, leaving behind Kavinsky and Prokopenko as Swan and Skov follow him, Skov crushing Jiang's abandoned cigarette under his heel as he passes.

After lunch the five of them find themselves behind the school, sharing smokes as they lean against the wall, watching the lacrosse team practice across the field.

“That one Lynch's?” Kavinsky asks, smoke tumbling out with his words as he points across the field toward one of the lacrosse players, _Lynch_ emblazoned on the back of his jersey.

Proko grunts in response, snatching Kavinsky's cigarette out of his hand. Kavinsky sends him a lazy glare but does nothing else to stop him, merely loops an arm around Proko’s shoulders.

Jiang crosses his arms, ignoring the exchange as he glowers at the lacrosse players. Kavinsky’s new obsession with the middle Lynch brother had become a sore spot for him. Kavinsky had no business getting involved with the likes of Lynch, who was all sharp corners and sullen silences, the kind only the privileged were privy to.

Kavinsky was privileged, but in the way free-range livestock was privileged. While life in between may have been affluent, he had been doomed from birth. Hooked on cocaine by thirteen, he’d carved a space out for himself in the darker parts of Henrietta, no thanks to his parents, he was one of the few at Aglionby that made a name for himself away from his parents. All that existed of his parents were rumours, all that existed of him was legend.

 

* * *

 

 

Lynch watching became a group activity, not contained solely to the middle Lynch. When he wasn’t around, the other two sufficed, and, while Matthew was largely oblivious, Declan took notice quickly, glaring disapprovingly toward the five of them whenever they passed.

He only openly confronted them twice, making sure both times to take great care in detailing what would happen to them if they got involved with Ronan, but it was obvious to everyone, except maybe Declan, proving that the two brothers were as estranged as ever, that Ronan would never lower himself to the likes of Kavinsky.

Kavinsky smirked and teased anyway, revelling in the empty threats and attention from the eldest Lynch.

 

* * *

 

 

The only interactions with Ronan himself happened outside of school, after sunset in the dark corners of Henrietta. Fast cars, loud music, and a little bit of whatever they could get their hands on; powdered, rolled, or liquid, as long as it hurt. Skid marks on the pavement and burned out brakes. The only words exchanged were insults and threats, texts stating a place and a time. A universe away from Dick Gansey and his rules. Kavinsky owned the night, Gansey the day, and Ronan was kidding himself if he thought he could live in both without a conflict of interests.

 

* * *

 

 

That's how they spent their junior year, picking fights with Declan Lynch, and racing Ronan on deserted back roads, moths to a flame. Drugs and parties filling the other spaces, Kavinsky's infamy growing with each weekend, each substance party, the rumours growing. He was king, a master of forgeries, he could get you anything you wanted, could _be_ anything you wanted, as long as you wanted to be hurt.

 

* * *

 

 

Then summer hit. The fights grew more frequent, the races deadlier.

Dick the Third showed up to a substance party.

Ronan gave Kavinsky a pair of white sunglasses, a flawed forgery, however imperceptible.

Moths to a flame.

Ronan engaged, the bracelets were a challenge, and he accepted. The consequences could have been seen a mile away, but Kavinsky was too far gone to care. Jiang figured there would be no stopping it. Skov believed they could talk him out of it. Swan knew there was nothing they could do but watch, their king would fall, it was foretold, it was only a matter of time. Prokopenko didn't say anything.

 

* * *

 

 

They roamed the streets looking for fights, a pack of wolves only the reckless dared challenge. Ronan, more often than not, was the only one up for the challenge.

And then Ronan showed up in a bright red Camaro. Word was Dick was out of town. Word was Ronan couldn't control his nightmares.

_You know me, I just hate to be alone._

But Ronan wasn't alone either, he'd brought ghosts and monsters, a trail of violence and ash.

The mangled form of Dick's prized Camaro was more unbelievable than anything Lynch could ever dream up.

 

* * *

 

 

A field of nearly identical white cars, a blur of red the only spot of colour _._ Dirty words in a foreign language, two boys, two dreamers, two thieves. A dead father, a dead friend, forgeries of the darkest kind. Fraudulent and perfect.

“You don't fucking _need_ him,” Kavinsky said, _I need you_ he meant .

“There's only with me or against me,” Kavinsky said, _please don't leave me_ he meant.

“I will burn you down,” Kavinsky said, Molotov cocktails and scorched cars. He meant it.

“See you in the streets,” Kavinsky said, and there was no turning back.

 

* * *

 

 

Ronan had played the game, he'd accepted his role, and then he'd backed out. Kavinsky wasn't about to let him go without a fight. _Would you stop if you knew it was destroying the world?_ Who cared about the world, Kavinsky's world was drugs, dreams, and sex. And why shouldn't it be, the rest of the world wasn't his responsibility. He'd learned long ago fend for yourself, everyone else either wants to use you or your infamy. He surrounded himself with people who needed him, who were loyal, and easy to keep in line. Prokopenko came first, the real Proko, the only one who didn't want him for what he could create, the only one he couldn't control, the only one he couldn't save.

He brought him back, of course, imperfect, obedient, broken, but still there. But a broken boy can't dream a perfect creation, you can't build on a cracked foundation and expect it to hold.

 

* * *

 

With Kavinsky reality was circumstantial. When you could bring dreams to life reality didn't

seem as important. When life treated you the way it treated Kavinsky, reality could go fuck itself. Kavinsky didn't have friends, he had followers, admirers, enemies. Kavinsky had family, he had Prokopenko, and he had Jiang, Skov, and Swan. They were alone, bonded together by their mutual disdain for life. Kavinsky was their centre, their leader, their secret.

 

* * *

 

 

July came, and with it fireworks and drugs and the low buzz of anxiety, thrumming through their veins as Kavinsky spun out of control.

Ronan took the high road, he stopped engaging, he ignored the car, the texts, the pleading. He made his decision, he left Kavinsky no other choice.

Matthew Lynch, beloved brother, loose end, bait, went missing.

Ronan came to the Fourth, full of hate and fire, burning cold and deadly.

Ronan came to fight, Kavinsky stayed untouchable.

Hands around Kavinsky's throat and snarled threats. Kavinsky smirked through it all, he'd finally gotten what he'd wanted, he'd finally gotten Ronan's attention, and he fought hard to keep it.

Identical thief license plates, _in and out_ , flames burst and nightmares came to life.

Kavinsky burned, scent of gasoline and danger.

In the silence Kavinsky's laugh rang out, and the dream creatures fought and struggled, crashing and rolling together, cars burned and the crowd screamed.

Four boys watched from the sidelines as an impossible beast of flames and hatred and the contents of Kavinsky's mind collided with their king, they watched as his body slumped to the ground.

Three boys watched as his favourite forgery crashed his Mitsubishi into a building, falling into eternal sleep.

Three boys were held back as Ronan retreated, gone far before the ambulance arrived on site, gone before the dust cleared.

Three boys collapsed in the dirt, clutching at each other as the ambulance wheeled their king away, lights off as they left the fairground.

They had seen it coming, had felt it in the air for weeks, but knowing what was coming was different from watching the lifeless body of the boy they revered and loved being carried away, as they stood by uselessly, the roar of the crowd washing over them.

 


End file.
